Free The King of Threadneedle Street by Moriah Densley Page A

and more powerful. Broad, proud shoulders framed a torso splendidly muscled but not so bulky or dramatically veined that it lacked romance. His chest invited touch; it looked warm and promised shelter. She wanted to capture that as well.
    Andrew stared back, unashamed as she studied him. Flattering, the way he tilted his head, flexing the muscles of his neck and shoulders; she would tell him to hold it that way when she drew it. He wore the expression she desired from him; confident, playful, with that familiar bewitching sparkle of mischief in his clear brown eyes. The near-perfect harmony of his striking angular features could only be the product of a dozen generations of beautiful people breeding more beautiful people. That was academic to reproduce, but the stormy sweep of his brow and eager humor of his mouth would be a challenge.
    What she had been discovering piece by piece, was that Andrew lived in harmony with his dramatic extremes: His jovial humor and dreadful temper, his inclination to be lazy and his financial genius, his London sophistication and fondness for his home in the country.
    This was her Andrew, precisely as she would capture him in her memory. If he was willing to admit by word and deed they were in love, then she could declare it in lines and strokes on paper. She tucked the pad under her arm and approached him, returning the devilish smirk he sent her. “The light is perfect, Drew. Hold this pose if you can.”
    She adjusted how his arm draped over the back of the settee and nudged his shoulder back a bit to remove the shadow it cast on his chest. His fingers toyed with the embroidered pattern of the fabric but stilled when she noticed. “No, go ahead and do that.” She tilted his jaw and angled it directly forward then slightly downward, so that he was looking from under his eyebrows. Lastly, she ran her fingers through his hair and let it fall carelessly on his forehead, then took a step back.
    “Does my lady approve?” His voice was thick with humor, and a tremor of nervousness she hadn’t known he felt. He didn’t look nervous at all, a vision of a dark incubus primed for seduction. But there was a contradiction of soulful tenderness in his expression that softened his erotic impact. Again, another fascinating contrast in extremes.
    “Andrew, you are an artist’s dream.” She kissed him on the forehead and brushed across his jaw. He hummed in response, a sound of satisfaction. The simple exchange caused a bizarre reaction; she was seized by a whim, a temptation that flashed in urges and uncivilized hungers before she quelled it.
    Unaffected by heroic nudity, indeed!
    She sat back in her chair and began to draw after taking a deep breath. It came easily, seemed simple. She was hardly aware of smiling as she sketched. Andrew was a perfectly-behaved model. He didn’t distract or tease her and obediently adjusted his pose when she asked.
    Alysia used light and shadow dramatically but reserved brilliant colors for the most intense expressions such as his eyes, the glint of sunlight in his hair, and to highlight his musculature. Muted tones shaped all else, which drew attention to his imposing demeanor. Indeed she prided herself on her meticulous detail and lifelike representations, and this was her finest yet.
    The only problem? Now she was feeling short of breath, overheated, and achy with a burning feeling that crawled from her core to the tips of her fingers, brushing every nerve along the way. Now that she had layered the shading with color, the Andrew in the drawing appeared as though he was deciding whether to snooze or prowl off the sofa and ravish the viewer right there on the floor. His dark, direct gaze seemed to say, If you like what you see, then come and get it.
    Was it the subject or the drawing that provoked her so?
    A heady sensation escalated her agitated state — fascination with his navel as it contracted with his exhalation. She had to stare then draw, stare then draw,